


Human Experiment

by Jewel2065



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 08:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jewel2065/pseuds/Jewel2065
Summary: Nora reaches the Institute and meets Shaun.





	Human Experiment

**Human Experiment  
By Jewel**

 

"I am Shaun, Mother. Is it so hard for you to believe that sixty years passed rather than ten?" 

I was a lawyer once; and was adept at lateral thinking and drawing information from the smallest clues. And I had studied psychology alongside law because I'd thought, then, that it might help me be better in my chosen career. Back then, I had been young and idealistic and believed in Truth and Justice. 

Practising law, however, tends to make a person cynical and teaches you to expect the worst of people. It teaches you that everyone – absolutely everyone – lies.

It was not at all hard to believe the story I was being told, here in the gleamingly white Institute, with a small robot-boy in a glass cell. Could I believe it was six decades, or any other measure of time for that matter, since Kellogg murdered Nate? Yes, of course I could: I knew from the moment I spilled out of the pod onto the frozen floor of Vault 111 that I had no idea how long my baby had been gone. 

I certainly had no trouble believing that the Institute had released me from stasis, and had put Kellogg in my path in the oh-so-subtle central location of Diamond City where I was sure to arrive sooner or later. Made sure that Clone-Shaun was seen around town just enough to provide a lure. I did not, however, believe the reason for that. 

(Shaun's voice, warm and incongruously dispassionate, dismissing the murder of the father he had never known as "collateral damage". Clone-Shaun's "disappointing" emotional responses. The conjecture as to whether I would seek my missing son)

I could see Nate in the shape of his face, the straight line of his nose; could see myself in the tilt of lips and colour of his eyes. This was certainly 'a' Shaun. Perhaps he really was the original Shaun if time were rolled forward six decades; I would know, maybe, if I had been allowed to see Nate grow old. However, nothing in this presentation suggested that this-Shaun is my-Shaun; he could easily be another clone suitably programmed, or even a normal human in the sort of clever makeup and prosthetics favoured by spy movies.

No. That was too elaborate a set up on the off-chance that Mommy might make it this far.

It was a lot more difficult to believe that the Institute – populated by amoral, inbred, egotistical sociopaths – would promote an outsider – let alone a science experiment – to the top position when surely any one of those other sociopaths would rather see themselves in the big chair. 

And what did it say about Shaun's life that he grew up so deviously manipulative that he could manoeuvre himself into this position over the heads of his rivals?

If it was true that he was told of his origins when he turned 18, why would the Institute think that a young man whose only role thus far was to be a human test subject would have any wish to work with them? Why did he not want to find his parents at that point? Why would the Institute have bothered to educate him at all, let alone to the extent that he was – based on what he had said so far – a guiding light in the field of bioscience and ultimately qualified to become the Director? 

Setting aside the probability of indoctrination, the sort of creative genius that was presumably required in the Institute of today was usually inculcated from a very young age, and fostered along by mentors. Even allowing for growing up as a mere experiment in front of whom senior scientists would speak openly just as they would in front of a petri-dish – Shaun would not have had the resources to carry out independent study and I didn't imagine his keepers would have given any thought to actually encouraging curiosity or independence of thought. And if "talent with science" was a genetic gift as much as a trained ability – well neither Nate nor I had any particular skills in the sciences beyond the bare minimum needed to get through high school. 

No. This was not my Shaun. But he didn't have to be, did he? After all Nate and I were fairly average in appearance. All they had to do was wheel out someone of roughly similar appearance and present a scenario and wait for the grieving mother to accept it.

Hmm. Take that a step further.

Once upon a time I was a human woman with a husband and an infant son, living a more-or-less idyllic life in comfortable suburbia. Now…?

If this was the wishing-on-a-star of an old man with near infinite resources and a community totally dedicated to pursuit of goals laid down by him…. Maybe Nora died in the vault along with all her neighbours after the re-freeze was initiated by Kellogg. Maybe I'm a clone too, programmed to fill the role of mommy. Maybe chasing the ghost of Shaun across the Commonwealth is my own choice; but equally maybe it's all just make-believe.

("We still have the replacement.")

Would a scientist pursuing behavioural studies leave anything to chance? He would surely want his experiment at least striving to pursue the ultimate goal rather than, say, running off to join a commune or a raider gang instead. And he would need a control if in fact he used the original source in the experiment at all.

Cynically I prodded that thought. Take it a step further: The Director had commissioned Clone-Shaun as a younger version of him. Would it be any more complicated to make a Clone-Mommy?

Maybe original-Nora survived and stumbled out of One-Eleven just as I believed I had done. I had no illusions as to my own abilities that day; the deathclaw in Concord should have done for me if the raiders in the museum had not. Since then I had survived unending hordes of raiders, ferals and supermutants, all of whom only needed one of their number to be lucky. When did original-Nora ever learn to dodge missiles or use a shotgun? Original-Nora was a nerd and utterly hopeless at sports in school – but my grenade-throwing was excellent.

Certainty settled into my mind: Original-Nora had died and I was a clone-Nora (who knew how many previous Noras had died in the wasteland before me?) running around like a rat in a maze.

Take it further.

Why have live-testing of the Nora experiment? Virtual reality and simulations were state of the art training tools for specialist military jobs 210 years ago. Was this a VR programme? Was I even a Nora? Did I even have a flesh body? I could just as easily be an AI or a Gen-1 sitting in a chair hardwired into the simulator.

I stared at Shaun – the old man who claimed to be my son.

The thought never even reached my conscious mind: My hand lifted, and the shotgun fired – a perfect headshot just as they always were – and Shaun's face dissolved into a spray of red-and-grey, bright colour painting the clinical walls, reminding me of Pickman's paintings.

The shotgun clattered to the floor as I stared at the body of my aged son and waited for the simulation to end.


End file.
